


Brave Soldier Boy Comes Marching Home

by AlexKingOfTheDamned, swimsalot



Series: More generally unrelated high school shenanigans [4]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Hearing aids, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-05
Updated: 2013-11-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 13:48:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1032412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlexKingOfTheDamned/pseuds/AlexKingOfTheDamned, https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimsalot/pseuds/swimsalot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a nightmare wakes Phil and Clint is nowhere in sight, he proceeds to destroy his room in a panic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Brave Soldier Boy Comes Marching Home

**Author's Note:**

> This should be read after "We're Only Young Once" which is the story previous to this in the series. This won't make much sense without it. Context!

Flashes of red. Sparks of white. Images of a war he wasn’t even in. Burning buildings, gunfire, ringing ears, the heaviness of a dead soldier on his back.

 

Thrashing wasn’t a strong enough word to describe the sleeping form of Phil Coulson. Body taken by memories of fights he never fought. Existing only from vivid retellings from the discharged soldier who should be sleeping on the other side of the bed.

 

Phil awoke with a start and a shout, calling out for help. Drenched in cold sweat, hand reaching for his lover Clint in his spot on the bed. His hand hits cold sheets beside him. His stomach drops.

 

“Clint!” he calls raggedly, his voice shaking as badly as his body. “Clint, answer me!”

 

Flickers of Clint’s funeral are hot in his mind, the dark and painful memorial service, after he’d been declared KIA, before they found him weeks later barely surviving on his own in a hole in a wall. Phil remembers the joy he felt when he got the news that Clint was alive.

 

He remembers. He knows it happened.

The empty bed is telling him otherwise.

 

“Clint!” he scrambles out of bed and throws open the bathroom door. No sign of Clint. Not even the chair he bought him to sit in while he showers since his balance is still off from losing his hearing. The chair that Clint made him get rid of because he refused to be an invalid. He _knows_ he got that damn chair.

 

He slips on the tile on his way out of the bathroom. Pain sparks up his knees and palms, tears patter on the hardwood floor of his bedroom.

 

Downstairs Clint turns off the tap in the kitchen. He sets the cup of water aside and starts searching the cupboards from a light snack before he heads back to bed. He's been living in the house with Phil for almost a month but he still can't make it through a full night's rest. Luckily unlike his lover he doesn't have a job so he can sleep in tomorrow. But he knows Phil is always busy and the long days dealing with high schoolers tire him out quickly so he always does his best not to wake him when he gets up at two a.m.

 

He finds an almost empty box of crackers and grabs a few. It's unsettling when he can't hear them shifting in the box but he's starting to get used to the stillness that surrounds him when he's not wearing his hearing aids. It's still uncomfortable and he's always worried someone is about to attack him from behind but he's not going to worry about putting them in when he's only going to be up for a few minutes.

 

Satisfied with his small snack Clint heads back up stairs with his glass of water, planning on hanging out in Phil's office and reading some of Phil's boring self help books until he's tired enough to go back to bed.

 

His feet had only just hit the floor at the top of the stairs when he feels a vibration come from down the hall. Phil’s supposed to be sleeping, so it sends a red flag waving in Clint’s head. When he feels another one, and then a third, he picks up the pace down the hall.

 

He sees a flash of light and throws open the bedroom door to see the lamp from Phil’s dresser smashed on the floor. He’s slumped on the wood, his leg bleeding from a cut given to him by the broken glass, illuminated by the moonlight through the window. The curtains from his window have been torn down, as well as the curtains on his canopy bed. One of the drawers in his dresser has been ripped out and overturned, and the bedside table on Phil’s side of the bed is upside down a few feet away. He’s facing towards the wall, back to the door, leaning against the bed frame and shaking.

 

"Phil!" He shouts, or hopes he shouts because he can't hear his own voice. Clint drops his cup of water as he rushes to his lover's shivering body. Drops down beside him and wraps his arms tight around the older man.

 

Phil looks shell-shocked when Clint grabs onto him. Eyes wide and bleary, he stares at Clint for several seconds before holding on tight. Clint can’t hear him sobbing or babbling, but he can feel his shaking and his tears on his neck.

 

Usually a vision of calm dignity, Phil is lost now, clinging to his younger lover, vibrating with the intensity of his sobs.

 

Clint holds Phil as tightly as he can, rubbing his arms and pressing soft kisses to his cheeks and forehead. He wants to ask what's wrong but is too scared to use his voice without being able to hear it. So he squeezes Phil tighter, hoping Phil will understand the question without needing to hear it outloud.

 

He looks down to see Phil’s lips going, but his hearing aids are over on his bedside table. Which is only about four feet away, but right now that feels like a mile.

 

Phil is rocking them now, arms wrapped like a vice around Clint. He can feel Phil’s lips still moving on his shoulder, he can feel the breath of his voice.

 

"I can't hear you Phil." Clint says. He holds Phil tight and lifts him off the floor, keeping him pressed against his chest as he moves around the bed to sit them both on the comforter. His hearing aids are within reach now and he slips them into his ears to finally hear what Phil has been trying to say

 

“I thought you were dead, I dreamed you were – the war, I thought, I forgot – ” dignity forgotten, Phil sobs. If only his students could see him now. A thirty-five year old man crying like a baby, clinging to the only thing that matters to him in the world.

 

Clint holds him tighter, his own eyes starting to water. "I'm not dead Phil," he says, stating the obvious. "I'm right here I just went to get some water. I'm sorry. I won't leave again, I promise. I'll stay right here."

 

Phil cries so hard that his breath comes in sharp, involuntary gasps. He hasn’t sobbed like this since childhood, but he can’t bear to stop. His chest his tight, his head still reeling over the images from his dream.

 

“I thought – hic – you were supposed to be the – hic – one with the PTSD – hic – dammit,” he gasps, burying his face in Clint’s neck.

 

"I know I'm alive." Clint answers. He starts stroking Phil's hair and rocking them gently, trying to sooth the man he loves. "I know I'm alive and I have you. I'm not scared right now. You are."

 

Phil eventually cries himself right to sleep. All Clint can do is lie him down on top of the blankets and fold them over him. It’s okay, he probably wasn’t going to sleep any more that night anyway.

 

First aid kit in the bathroom, Clint remembers. He cleans and band-aids the cut on Phil’s leg and uses the swiffer to move all the glass into the corner of the room. He’ll clean it in the morning when the noise won’t wake Phil.

 

He waits until Phil is well and truly asleep before getting a book from his office as quick as he can, and reads with the booklight on the other side of the bed. His hearing aids are uncomfortable, but he wears them all night in case Phil calls out to him again.

 

When Phil calls in the next day to say he can’t make it in to school, he tells them he has a stomach bug.


End file.
